


Turning Points

by stuartdakins



Series: We're Not In The Subjunctive Anymore [1]
Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Anal, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Future Fic, Gay Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, hideous rental interiors (cw on dakin's behalf), subjunctive 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuartdakins/pseuds/stuartdakins
Summary: He sees Irwin around town, once or twice, in a wheelchair that reminds him far too much of the accident and of Hector, and he walks the other way. He doesn't see him again until the memorial service.
Relationships: Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin
Series: We're Not In The Subjunctive Anymore [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1770538
Comments: 16
Kudos: 15





	Turning Points

**Author's Note:**

> I was meant to be working on the next Love, Actually... instalment but this fell out of my brain instead and it wouldn't leave me alone until I finished it. What started off as musings on the weird limbo between school and uni (which lockdown definitely has echoes of) quickly descended into filth (blame Dakin).
> 
> Special thanks to @cuppaktea for reading over bits of this when I was in the darkest depths of my madness and couldn't tell if I was making sense any more.

The months between finishing school and leaving for university are - at least for Dakin - a bizarre, paradoxical limbo. On the one hand, the days seem to inch by maddeningly slowly - filling him with a creeping sense of restlessness, of waiting for something - anything - to start. On the other hand, their sameness makes them blur together until it's as if no time at all has passed. He's not sure exactly when it started - perhaps it was after the exam, faced with the prospect of having nothing to do, though after the months spent studying, doing nothing sounded like a just reward. Perhaps it started the morning he opened the letter and autumn's Oxford hopeful became spring's future undergraduate, impatient to start his academic insurrection of society's upper echelons. Looking back, however, if he were to write an essay on the subject, he'd stipulate that the real turning point took place later that afternoon in a hot, empty classroom, making plans to go for a drink with his one-time teacher (followed swiftly thereupon by the unravelling of said plans and the death of another teacher he still doesn't quite know how to feel about). 

He sees Irwin around town, once or twice, in a wheelchair that reminds him far too much of the accident and of Hector, and he walks the other way. He doesn't see him again until the memorial service, by which time the wheelchair is replaced with crutches, and he feels dreadful about the sigh of relief he breathes, more for his sake than Irwin's. Rudge, of course, needles him about his aborted rendezvous with Irwin, and Dakin's stubborn need to prove him wrong makes up his mind - that plans made and broken can be re-made again. There may be no barring accidents, but accidents be damned, he's doing this - for the boy who walked into that empty classroom more nervous than he'd have admitted, and the man who walked out having gotten what he wanted (both Dakin, both urging him on from the sidelines).

To the parents, most of the teachers, and a handful of the youngest students - everyone outside the eye of the storm - Hector's death is an unmitigated tragedy. Something about Irwin makes him easy for them to blame - maybe it's the fact that he's still new, an outsider, not to be trusted, or maybe simply the fact that he survived and Hector didn't. Either way, Irwin's expression is one of pronounced discomfort and he suspects it has less to do with his injuries and more to do with the stares and whispers from everyone around him. It's no surprise he makes a move to leave as soon as the service is over, and Dakin might have missed him, had it not been for Irwin's crutches making it near-impossible to go anywhere without drawing attention to himself. He elbows his way through the foyer full of mingling parents and teachers, hearing snatches of reverent conversation about Hector as he does - the words "inspirational" and "beloved" fill him with a distinct unease he'd rather not unpack, and he stops listening after that. Irwin's heading for the gates, painfully slow on his crutches, and it doesn't take long for Dakin to catch up - nor does it take Irwin long to be persuaded into going for that drink.

They have their false starts, of course - the accident being their first, the second being the night of the memorial. This time it's Dakin's fault - he's still feeling mixed up about the accident, about Hector, about everything, and he drinks far too much. Irwin, to his credit (and Dakin's disappointment), is a perfect gentleman and drops him home without so much as a kiss goodnight. Dakin's recollections of the evening are scattered, but the following morning he remembers Irwin's words to him in the semi-dark of his living room - _it's been a weird day for both of us, and - and you're drunk, and I... I want the first time we do this to feel - right - and it doesn't, not tonight -_ and he smiles to himself, despite his pounding headache. He'll tell his mum he ran into one of the lads from school and went for a drink after the service (because the most convincing lies are closest to the truth) and they'll try again the next night, and the next.

*

The second night gets off to a far more promising start. That's the night Dakin discovers there's a difference between kissing and _being_ kissed - and lets himself be kissed and kissed and kissed again, finding something oddly freeing in the small act of self-surrender. Irwin had been caught off guard that day in his classroom, but here, in the seclusion of his flat, the confidence and snark and superiority is back and Dakin drinks it all in, pliant and yielding in Irwin's hands, savouring the abandonment of control.

As he's manoeuvred on to the bed, however, Dakin begins to feel the encroaching weight of his own inexperience, and his desperate need to please Irwin, to be good at this. Irwin slides a hand down Dakin's chest, stopping only when he reaches his jeans - and Dakin can already feel his cock beginning to harden, but he forces himself to finally break the kiss and sit up straight on the edge of the bed. 

"What's wrong?" Irwin asks, dredging himself out of the kiss-haze to come and sit with Dakin. He can feel Irwin's weight on the mattress next to him, but he's too embarrassed to look at him. He looks straight ahead instead, scowling at the faded flowers on the wall. 

"Nothing," he mutters, running a hand through his meticulously-gelled hair. "Your wallpaper's hideous."

"It's not _mine_. It was here when I moved in." He places a gentle, tentative hand on Dakin's thigh. "Now, are you going to tell me what's really wrong?"

Dakin sighs and relents, taking Irwin's hand in his own and turning to face him. "I haven't done this before, alright? I mean - I _have_ , obviously. Just - you know. Not with a man."

"We don't have to, not if you don't want - "

"I do want to, though. I really want to." 

Irwin is visibly relieved. "Alright, then. How do you want this? You're in charge."

"I, um... quite liked _you_ in charge. It was pretty fucking hot, actually."

"Oh. You want me to…?"

"Fuck me? Yeah, I think I do. I'm just a bit - "

" - Nervous?"

"Not nervous, no." He fumbles for the right words, hating how awkward this feels. "More like... _unprepared."_

Irwin's expression is blank.

"Please don't make me spell it out."

_"...Ah."_

"It's just - the only gay person I know is Pos - and maybe Scripps, jury's still out - and I can't ask either of them because they're even more virgins than I am - "

"You could have asked me."

"I didn't want to! It's embarrassing."

"I don't mind, really."

"Yeah, well _I_ bloody well mind! I wanted you to think I knew what I was doing, but clearly I don't."

"Secret's out now. Might as well."

"Dick." Dakin gives him a playful shove. "Fine… how do I - _prepare?"_

"I've got some - um, stuff, that you can use. I'll talk you through what to do, and then tonight when you get home, or maybe tomorrow, you can… you know."

Irwin talks him through the finer points of preparation, and Dakin never remembers him being so awkwardly self-conscious when coaching him on exam technique, but it thrills him nonetheless to have Irwin play teacher again. Despite Dakin's best efforts his face must betray some puerile amusement because Irwin quirks an eyebrow at him and he feels thoroughly chastised - which only turns him on even more. 

_"Anyway…"_ Irwin continues, "You might also want to, um… stick a finger or two down there. Just to… you know, see how it feels. And - and if you don't like it, that's fine, you can change your mind. We don't _have_ to do this."

"That's sweet of you to say. But why is it so hard for you to believe I actually _want_ to have sex with you?"

"Force of habit, I suppose. You will try it, though, won't you? It takes a bit of getting used to, and I - I want your first time to be good."

Dakin kisses him again, softly this time. "Yes, I'll try it. So - same time tomorrow?"

The walk home feels longer than last time, the discreet paper bag Irwin gave him practically burning a hole in the pocket of his leather jacket, but he finally makes it back - and not a moment too soon. As he shuts the door behind him he hears his mum call out from the kitchen, but he rushes past her and sequesters himself in the bathroom.

"You alright, Stu?" she asks again, not to be deterred.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replies as he empties the paper bag on to the bathroom floor and eyes up its contents, trying to remember what he's supposed to do with it.

"How was the pub?"

"...The pub? Oh, right - the _pub._ Yeah, it was good. I'm just going to, um, take a shower, alright? I'll see you in a sec."

*

The following morning, Dakin's up at the arse crack of dawn, far too keyed up to sleep a moment longer than necessary. He waits two interminable hours - rattling around the house, absent-mindedly burning his toast, making more - before unplugging the phone from downstairs and absconding to his bedroom. He retrieves Irwin's stash from the back of his underwear drawer - taking a moment to imagine how hilariously disappointed in him Irwin would be for picking such an obvious hiding place - and fishes out the little bottle of lube with one hand, dialling Irwin's number with the other. 

"Hello?" Irwin's phone-answering voice is bright and crisp and clear, and so blissfully unsuspecting. 

"Tom. It's me."

"Oh..." The telephone voice is gone and last night's warm, husky bedroom tones are back. "...Hello."

"I did what you told me to. Well, the first part, anyway. The second part I thought you might like to talk me through… _sir."_

"Oh, _fuck..."_ Irwin's response is barely audible over the slamming of his bedroom door and the unzipping of his trousers. Dakin takes this opportunity to rearrange himself on the bed. It's a delicate balancing act - sprawled out on his back, naked, he positions the phone precariously on his shoulder while one hand grips his cock and with the other he circles his hole with a lubed-up finger.

"I'm ready when you are, sir," he teases, eliciting a low moan from Irwin.

"Fucking hell, Stuart - I thought you wanted me to get _you_ off."

Dakin makes a mental note of the fact that Irwin really, _really_ likes it when he calls him 'sir' - a weakness he fully intends to exploit later that night.

"Alright, now it shouldn't hurt, not if you sort of… relax into it. Can you do that for me?"

Dakin does as he's told, and Irwin's right - it doesn't hurt exactly, but it's certainly _different_. He can only take about an inch or so at first, but it feels like an achievement nonetheless. "Yeah. Fuck, that's nice." As his body begins to adjust to the feeling, his free hand lazily strokes his cock, and he figures the silence on the other end of the phone means Irwin's doing the same.

"You think you can take another one?" Irwin asks, his breathing a little heavier than before.

"Yeah - I think so," Dakin replies, sliding another finger in next to the first. Again - it's not painful, but there's a definite pressure, and it takes him a few minutes to get used to it, helped along by Irwin's softly murmured encouragements - _that's it, you're doing great, just breathe._ Reminding himself to relax, he pushes deeper - and feels the tips of his fingers brush up against his prostate for the first time.

"Fuck _me,"_ Dakin growls, tightening his grip on his cock as he massages his prostate, letting the pleasure and pressure build until it's overwhelming. 

"You like that?" Irwin asks, and usually Dakin would bite back with a sarcastic retort (because of _course_ he fucking likes it, it feels incredible), but under the circumstances all he can manage is a breathless yes.

"Oh, God - I'm gonna - _fuck_ \- I'm gonna come," he gasps, and then he's coming, hard, the wet heat pooling in the hollows of his chest and stomach as a pleasant ache reverberates through his body. He lays there for a few moments, waiting for his brain to regain control of his legs, while Irwin finishes himself off.

"Fucking hell…" Dakin sighs as he reaches into the bedside drawer for a tissue. "That was incredible. _You're_ incredible."

"You're not… so bad… yourself…" Irwin replies, still gasping for breath. 

There's nothing Dakin wants more than to stay in this moment with Irwin, but as he comes to his senses he hears footsteps on the stairs and lowers his voice to a whisper. "Shit. I think my mum's coming."

"Stu!" his mum calls out from behind the door. "Are you done with the phone? I'd quite like to use it some time this century."

"Ugh, I'd better go. She's being a fucking drama queen, as per."

"I heard that!"

"Fuck. I'll see you tonight, yeah? - Mum, don't come in! I'm getting dressed!"

On the other end of the phone, Irwin is clearly trying not to laugh. "See you tonight. Looking forward to it."

There's a click as he hangs up, and Dakin hurriedly finishes wiping himself down, throws on a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt, and emerges from his room moments later, phone in hand - looking only slightly flushed.

"Who was that?" his mum asks nonchalantly.

"Oh, no-one - just Don. We're, um - going for drinks tonight, so I'll be back late again." 

He makes a mental note to call Scripps (for real) later, and tell him to cover for him - which he'll happily do, in exchange for a full report.

*

Dakin shows up at Irwin's flat at the appointed time, freshly showered but unshaven - he decides the stubble makes him look older. Besides, he doesn't want to look like he's trying too hard - which, of course, he is. His hair alone took him an hour, and after trying about sixteen different outfits he's opted for his trusty leather jacket and his tightest pair of jeans. There isn't much point, he realises halfway to Irwin's - it's not like he plans on wearing them for long - but it's worth it when Irwin answers the door and eyes him up and down with a self-satisfied little smirk, as if to say _yes - this is mine._

"Inside. Now." Irwin grabs him by the waist and pulls him in close, kicking the door shut behind him as he kisses Dakin hungrily, feverishly. Dakin melts into the kiss, parting his lips to allow Irwin's tongue access to his own, tugging at Irwin's shirt to signal to him that it's time to get the stupid fucking thing off. Irwin's only too happy to oblige, and as Dakin shrugs off his own shirt and jacket he takes a moment to appreciate the view - the light dusting of freckles across Irwin's chest, the hollows at the base of his neck and stomach, the sharp angles of his protruding hipbones. He takes it in, detail by detail at first, and then all at once, unable to stop the Cheshire grin spreading across his face. He imagines Irwin taking him in like this too, for the first time - all carefully-cultivated muscle and faint trails of dark hair down his chest and stomach, every inch Irwin's opposite. There's something exposing about it - not physically, though, oddly. Dakin's never been the body-conscious type, after all - having had nothing but glowing reviews (not least of all from Posner, who Dakin's caught eyeing him up in the showers on several occasions). No, it's more of an emotional exposure, standing half-naked in the dingy hallway of Irwin's flat, staring at each other from across the gulf of everything between them that's unsaid and undone, seconds from bridging the distance. 

Dakin moves first (as he often does), reaching out to grip those hipbones - which seem to have been designed for this purpose - and pulling their bodies together once again. They only stop kissing when it's necessary for the removal of clothing, the discarded items of which are left on the floor in their wake, tracing a path from front door to bedroom. Once inside, he pulls the both of them down onto the bed, relishing every delighted little moan from Irwin as he grinds their hips together, grip firm on Irwin's arse. As Irwin caresses his inner thigh, hand tantalisingly close, Dakin can practically feel the blood rushing to his cock. 

"You want me to touch you?" he asks in that sultry bedroom voice he'd used on the phone that morning.

"Please," Dakin whines, and he'd be embarrassed by how desperate he sounds if he could think about anything besides Irwin's fingers finally, _finally_ wrapped around his dick. He slips a hand between their bodies and returns the favour, Irwin's cock already deliciously hard.

He's fantasized about Irwin sucking him off too many times to count. The first time wasn't his fault - it was a completely involuntary, _very_ confusing dream - but ever since then he couldn't stop. In empty classrooms going over old exam papers, or smoking after school (and subsequently hiding from Felix in that grimy supply closet) - all he could think about was Irwin dropping to his knees taking every inch of Dakin's cock in his mouth (and frankly, it's a miracle he managed to get any studying done, let alone pass the exam). But even his prolific (and _vivid)_ imagination has nothing on reality - and how like Irwin to refuse to be outdone, even by the version of himself in Dakin's fantasies. That sharp tongue of his is put to excellent use, doing wicked, wonderful things that make Dakin's breath catch in his throat. Soon enough, he has to insist they switch positions - partly because he's dangerously close to coming, but also because of his insatiable need to please Irwin (and, if he's honest, his own competitive streak). It's nowhere near as easy as Irwin makes it look, but eventually he gets the hang of it, if Irwin's moans and sighs are anything to go by. 

When Dakin finally comes up for air, Irwin's eyes - no longer obscured by those awful glasses - are hooded over with lust.

"You want to fuck me now?" Dakin purrs.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Irwin's voice trembles with excitement as he guides Dakin on to his back, sliding a pillow under his arse for comfort. 

Dakin belatedly remembers he's left the lube in the pocket of his leather jacket, which is presumably somewhere on the floor in the hallway - but before he can say anything, Irwin produces a second bottle from the bedside drawer, along with a packet of condoms. Dakin has _so_ many questions ( _How much sex stuff does this man own? Has Dakin misjudged him all along? Could he have given him a run for his money when he was Dakin's age?_ ) but they're going to have to wait until later, because the next thing he knows, Irwin's pressing a finger into him and _fuck_ it feels good. Then there's another finger and he's grateful for the morning's experimentations because it's far less uncomfortable than he was expecting, far easier to lean into the pressure, to relax. A few minutes' teasing and Dakin is - completely unabashedly - _begging_ Irwin to fuck him. 

Irwin's fingers withdraw and the pleasant sensation of fullness is momentarily gone - Dakin bemoans its sudden absence with a pathetic whining sound that he's too turned on to even be embarrassed by. A moment later, however, he hears the rustling of the condom wrapper and reminds himself that what's to come will be more than worth the wait. 

Irwin eases his cock into him slowly, inch by inch, and Dakin knows it's for his benefit - he's grateful, naturally, but part of him is irritated that, even now, Irwin's still being so fucking careful. The last thing Dakin wants is to be treated like he's delicate and fragile and _young,_ but with a little persuasion - _harder, please sir… oh fuck, that's good… pull my hair a bit, would you… oh yeah, just like that -_ Irwin finally starts to loosen up a little. Dakin wraps his legs around Irwin's waist and pushes him in deeper, allowing the pleasure to verge on pain - and he's so fucking close now, teetering on the brink of orgasm.

"You're a kinky little bitch, aren't you?" Irwin says softly - and fuck if that doesn't push Dakin right over the edge.

*

Afterwards (that is, after a long shower - comprising more groping and slow, lazy kissing than actual showering) the two of them collapse, still naked, on Irwin's sofa - another hideous 1950s relic, much like the rest of the flat's decor. Dakin slings his legs over the armrest and nestles his head in Irwin's lap, occupying as much surface area as humanly possible. Irwin asks if it'd kill him to sit properly, but Dakin can hear the smile in his voice as he runs his fingers through his hair - and it's these little intimacies he finds disarming, far more so than all the sex. He finally gets to ask those burning questions, though, and the answers are mostly what he expected. It being the seventies, and Irwin being chronically shy, he didn't so much as kiss anyone until he was sixteen. He wasn't exactly a nun though, either (Irwin's words, not Dakin's) - he had more than his fair share of sex at Bristol, though never anything serious enough to call a relationship. 

Irwin fetches them drinks and cigarettes and they talk some more - Dakin takes the opportunity to have a nosey through his book collection, smirking at the volumes upon volumes of Auden, Forster and Radclyffe Hall. He calls him hopelessly gay - Irwin doesn't disagree. They must talk like this for hours, wine and cigarettes slowly dwindling to nothing, stopping periodically to fool around on the sofa like a couple of teenagers (and on one occasion, for a repeat performance in the bedroom, every bit as thrilling as the first). 

They barely even notice it's getting light outside - the black of the night sky almost seems to dissipate and fade into grey clouds, which slowly turn lilac with the sun's refractions - and only then does Dakin begrudgingly get dressed and head home for some much-needed sleep. The house is empty, but it's no surprise - his mum's job means she keeps ridiculous hours, and if he ever missed the company as a kid, having the freedom to come and go as he pleased in his teenage years more than made up for the occasional loneliness. And with the whole of the summer stretching out ahead of him and Irwin at his beck and call, he has every intention of taking advantage of said freedom.


End file.
